


Se Mettre Au Vert

by AFireInTheAttic, Villainette



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Allison, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, France - Freeform, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-27
Updated: 2015-09-05
Packaged: 2018-04-01 12:05:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4019104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AFireInTheAttic/pseuds/AFireInTheAttic, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Villainette/pseuds/Villainette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I don’t know,” Lydia sighs, settling back against the headboard. “Maybe she’s terrible. But Alli, look at her seal!” She flips the envelope over and holds it out to Allison.</p><p>She observes it carefully, and her world seems to slot into place for the first time in years—even if it’s just for a brief second. She finally sees that she’s doing something…right.</p><p>“Bouclier de la non protégé,” she murmurs, and smiles as she traces it. </p><p>“Shield of the Defenseless,” Lydia confirms, and smiles.</p><p>*Updated with picture!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Allison is planning on running patrol in the preserve the first night she’s back from college, but instead Lydia shows up with a bag of chocolate and some pizza. She shoves her back into the apartment before she can even protest.

“Lydia, it’s good to see you,” her dad says, grinning from the couch.

Allison begins to feel betrayed. It’s very possible the two of them had planned this. She was only home for two hours and her dad was already trying to control her. Unwilling to let him direct them any further, she grabs Lydia’s arm and pulls her down the hallway. “We’re busy!”

Lydia, naturally, is unruffled. “I hope you weren’t planning on doing anything tonight,” she says breezily as she settles onto Allison’s bed. She takes the candy out of her shopping bag and spreads the plastic onto the bed before setting the pizza down on top of it. “Because I refused to spend tonight in any way other than braiding each other’s hair and talking about cute people.”

It’s not ideal, but then, there are worst ways to spend the evening rather than curled up with her best friend, whispering about girls in chemistry classes and the built guy on campus who always grins at her when he walks by.

She settles in and takes a slice of pizza. It’s her favorite—pepperoni and green bell peppers. Lydia is the only one who will eat it with her. Isaac always says there’s not enough toppings, and Scott stopped eating meat after he became alpha.

But Lydia likes it. Says it’s the right balance of grease and health—which is just how Allison feels.

Actually, they feel the same a lot of the time, which is…well, nice. Yeah. It’s nice to have someone who’s always on the same page as you—which, honestly, is probably how Lydia knew that Allison would try to go patrolling tonight and needed to be stopped. She was good like that.

They finish the pizza relatively quickly, but they’re more creative with the chocolate. Lydia has gotten pretty good at catching squares of Dove chocolate in her mouth, and Allison is good at throwing them. The other way? Not so much.

Lydia stretches out flat on her back, her shirt riding up over the hem of her panties to reveal a small sliver of pale white skin. They’d ditched their pants about an hour in to their gossiping, and their bras had followed shortly after.

Allison feels a little hot, looking down at Lydia from this position. She’s sitting cross-legged in front of Lydia, and Lydia’s legs are spread a little, her feet on either side of Allison’s knees.

She licks her lips and tosses the chocolate, trying to shake herself out of these thoughts. Lydia is her _best friend_. Not a girl she can hook up with, date a few times, and then ditch when they don’t understand why she can’t sleep for more than a few hours without getting up and walking around her dorm room to check for intruders.

A small voice in her head suggests that Lydia would understand, and wouldn’t want to break things off. Lydia wouldn’t ask anything of Allison that wasn’t possible.

She ignores it.

Lydia sits up, suddenly, and her shirt slides off her shoulder.

She tries not to stare.

“So, I may have done something a teeny bit invasive,” she says, and pulls a pillow onto her lap.”

Allison tries not to mourn the fact that she can no longer clearly see Lydia’s panties.

“Not as bad as, say, not telling your best friend the horror movie she’s hallucinating is totally real,” she says pointedly.

“Sorry?” Allison pokes in. She doesn’t say much more, because they’ve talked that one to death, and Lydia really only likes to bring it up when she’s nervous about telling her something. Anyway, she’s curious about what exactly Lydia did.

She rolls her eyes. “But. You know. The point is—remember the history you had me translate back in senior year? It was full of Argent leaders—Argent _women_. Your dad is always saying that the women in your family are leaders, right? And it’s always been that way.”

Allison pulls her knees to her chest and rests her chin on the knees, waiting. Lydia is beating around the bush. She wants to tell her not to be nervous, but she’s apprehensive herself. What has Lydia done?

“It got me thinking,” she continues, bringing her hand up to hold her chin. “Why the hell is your grandpa in charge? Especially because, sorry sweetie, he is murderous and fringe-y and a total creep.”

She’s wondered about it herself, honestly—why wasn’t her Aunt Kate, or her mother in charge? Sure, now it made sense for her dad to lead, especially while she was still in her teens, but before…why was Gerard in charge?

Lydia isn’t done yet. “So I did some digging—by which I mean I had Danny hack into your grandfather’s email.”

“What?!” It doesn’t concern her that she and Danny were being illegal—she’s definitely done worse than some light hacking—but Gerard is _dangerous_. If he can track it—wait. There’s no way he understands computers that well.

“Pfft, let me finish,” Lydia says. She seems unconcerned with the outburst. “You know your grandma didn’t kill herself, right?”

Honestly, she’s sort of assumed she had—not because anyone had told her as much, but because of her mom and because no one ever mentioned her. Still, the idea isn’t shocking. She nods her assent, and grinning, Lydia continues.

“She wasn’t killed by weres, either,” she says triumphantly.

Now she perks up.

“She’s alive, and she’s in France.” Lydia leans off the bed and digs through her bag for a moment. When she sits back up, she has an international envelope addressed to Allison. “And she wants to meet you.”

“I don’t know,” she says slowly.

“Come on. School’s out, and I have two tickets to Paris and an undentable AmEx, okay?”

Allison starts to nod, feeling a little overwhelmed suddenly. But if Lydia is there, she’ll be okay, right?

“I don’t know,” Lydia sighs, settling back against the headboard. “Maybe she’s terrible. But Alli, look at her seal!” She flips the envelope over and holds it out to Allison.

She observes it carefully, and her world seems to slot into place for the first time in years—even if it’s just for a brief second. She finally sees that she’s doing something…right.

“ _Bouclier de la non protégé_ ,” she murmurs, and smiles as she traces it.

“Shield of the Defenseless,” Lydia confirms, and smiles.

* * *

_Cher Allison,_

_Please excuse my English. I know it is not good. I have not spoken much after your Grandfather took my children away years ago._

_I have much happiness to learn you by your friend, Lydia. She said that you are not like Gerard. This is good! She said you are sad and you need to learn the right history of our family. I will teach you._

_Please come to visit me. I wish to meet you._

_Sincerely,_

_Dominque_

* * *

 

Allison isn’t sure what to expect when she gets of the plane at Charles De Gaulle. It’s not that she’s nervous about being in France—she’s gone there before, though not to Orleans, where her grandmother lives. She and her father had stayed in Paris. She wonders if her father knew Dominique was alive, and if he had, why he hadn’t introduced them. He hadn’t been thrilled about her going, but seemed to understand that Lydia got what she wanted.

Her father isn’t perfect, but she trusts him, mostly.

So she’s apprehensive about meeting Dominique, but—the shield. Maybe things will be okay.

She might have been more nervous if Lydia wasn’t holding her hand so tightly and searching all through the crowd. “I wonder if she’ll recognize you!”

“She’s never seen me before.”

“Maybe you look like her. You definitely don’t look much like your parents.”

“We have the same nose,” she says defensively.

“Sure,” Lydia placates. She rubs her thumbs over her knuckles. “Sure.”

Allison can barely breathe, she’s so focused on the movement of Lydia’s finger.

“There,” Lydia says, breaking her reverie. “ _Allison et Lydia_.” Her pronunciation is perfect.

Sure enough, a woman is holding a sign calling out their names cheerfully. She’s not smiling, but she doesn’t look angry. Just French, perhaps. She’s wearing black slacks and a floral blouse, and her hair is still dark.

“I guess your dad got the grey from Gerard,” Lydia comments, apparently noticing the same thing.

The woman certainly could be her grandmother. She looks old enough, though it’s clear she’s aged well—or maybe her deep tan simply covers up the wrinkles.

They stop in front of her, and Allison hesitantly says, “Dominique?”

The woman makes eye contact with her, and Allison knows that this is her grandmother. She has the same calculating look Kate did, though without the immediate warmth. Even so, after she picks over Allison’s clothing and eyes her arms, she smiles. “Allison, it is good to meet you.” She has a French accent, not exactly heavy, but noticeable. She looks to Lydia next, less critically, and then nods. “Lydia, it is good to meet you also.” She drops the sign and steps forward, embracing and giving Allison two quick air kisses, and then doing the same for Lydia. She steps back then, and picks up the sign. “Come, you must be tired.”

She says the word like “tie-red,” which makes Allison smile. Maybe she won’t b so bad after all.

* * *

 

At night, Allison can't sleep. It's not the jet lag so much as the thoughts that have been plaguing her ever since the Oni's blade sliced into her stomach.

She can't figure out how she survived it, most days. She just knows that one moment, Scott was putting pressure, so much pressure, on both sides of her stomach. She remembers saying she loved him still (which was true, but she wishes she hadn't said it, sometimes. She hadn't wanted a relationship with Scott again. They were different people. But she did love him. Does. It's just...in a different way now). She remembers passing out to pain and then waking up to more of it. Only, where it had been dark, now it was bright. Too bright.

Hospital. No one was there. She had so many wires and tubes attached to her that she began to panic and feel trapped, even if, logically, she knew they were there to help her. She didn't want them. She wanted—

Her bedroom in Dominique's house is pitch black, because of the shutters. She feels over the bedside table until she can grab her phone and check the time. 2:13 a.m.

She groans quietly, rolls over. Maybe she can power through this and fall asleep. At school, she wouldn't even be in bed. She'd be out patrolling. She would do the same here, if she had a working knowledge of the geography and the beasts in the area. Even a copy of the house key would be enough to get her outside and searching. But she has none of that.

(Everyone had visited her, one by one. They all apologized, over and over, one after the other, until finally she begged them to stop talking about it. To leave her alone in…her half-life. That's what it felt like, as she slowly pieced herself back together, not even able to eat for several weeks. Even after she could eat and move around again, she still felt hollow, alone. Isaac wouldn't talk to her. Kira kept flitting around her but never touching. Scott was a little awkward, but still full of genuine respect. Some days, that was enough.)

* * *

 

The first morning, she wakes up and joins Dominique in the living room. Dominique gives her coffee and the two of them watch the news.

Allison tries interpreting the French for a bit, but gives up after a while and just watches the pictures move on the screen. She hasn’t studied French since high school and has barely used it since, other than occasionally reading poetry on the Internet.

“What do you want me to teach you?” Dominique asks suddenly.

The spacious room suddenly feels too small. She wants to sneak out and get lost in the maze of Dominique’s strangely large home (it’s two stories with four bedrooms and three bathrooms, a kitchen and two dining areas. Not odd by American standards, but strange by French standards, especially in Orleans).

She can’t do that, though, so she just sinks into the couch. What does she want?

She thinks of what she’d told Kate, just two years ago. “I want to feel powerful.” But was that still the goal? Or is it more about protecting others now? She knows what it should be—wanting to be able to protect her town of incredibly strange beings, but—

“I want to feel safe,” she says, surprising even herself. “I want to know that I’m safe and that others around me are safe, too.”

Dominique nods and takes a long draw from her coffee. “Very well.”

* * *

 

Living with Dominique is—different.

At home, on the weekends, her father likes to sleep in, usually because they spent the night hunting. They both tend to wake up around noon and drink protein shakes, and then spend a few hours training before Allison feels comfortable leaving to go see Lydia or her other friends.

At school, without someone to be there and watch over her schedule, she gets more neurotic about hunting and working out. She runs for an hour every morning, and then alternates Pilates and strength training every other day for an hour after that. She takes only morning classes, is finished each day by noon, and then finishes her homework by five and spends her evenings patrolling the campus for monsters, both supernatural and otherwise.

Dominique does not allow this.

“You do not sleep enough,” she says at breakfast, firm and frowning. She has set out a tray of food on the table, holding three cups of _café au lait_ , three croissants, and three _pains du chocolats._ “Do you want some toast? With jam?” This is directed at Lydia, who is already reaching for her croissant.

Unembarrassed, Lydia shakes her head. “This is good.”

“The first night, I thought it was just—“ Dominique pauses, crinkling her nose the way Aunt Kate used to when she was trying to remember something. “Jetlag? But you still stay up too late. You are moving around too much so I can hear you.”

Allison slouched in her chair and started picking at her croissant. “I’m not tired.”

“I looked it up. Girls your age, just 19, you need seven or nine hours of sleep. That means, if we wake up at six, you must go to bed at least by 11. Last night I heard you at one in the morning. It is better if you go to sleep earlier than that, maybe, ah, 9, to be best. You must have your _strength_.”

Lydia snorts at this, and hides it in her coffee.

Allison scowls at her, knowing exactly what she finds so funny. She’s been trying to get Allison to sleep earlier for ages, and has essentially given up. She smiles politely at her grandmother. “It’s fine, Dominique. I’m not tired.”

“It is not fine! You want to be the best, yes?” Dominique is still standing, and now she’s put her hands on her hips, frowning at her archly.

After a few seconds of awkward silence, Allison realizes she’s waiting for an answer. “Yes,” she says quickly. She straightens her spine, because she’s an Argent. Argent women stand tall, and sit that way, too.

“Then you will eat and sleep also,” she said firmly, and added a _pain du chocolat_ to Allison’s small plate. “Hurry. We must go to do sports.”

* * *

 

She’s not sure what she expected about “sports,” but apparently in Dominque’s English, it just meant going to the gym.

“You know _la boxe_?” Dominque asks Allison, gesturing at a punching bag.

“No,” Allison admits. Most of her strength training has been weight lifting or using stair machines.

“ _Aïe, aïe, aïe_ ,” she says, blurring the syllables into one word. “We will start then.”

Allison and Lydia trail after her as she leads them _away_ from the punching bags. It gives her pause, but she assumes her grandmother is simply planning to have them warm up.

“Run, not slow, not too fast,” she says when they reach the track. “Four times.”

“Four laps?” Allison clarifies.

“ _Oui_. Go.”

She takes off, starting at a light jog and then speeding up to a relaxed run. Lydia catches up to her after a moment and slows her pace to run next to her.

“I didn’t think _I_ would get caught up in this,” she complains.

She snorts. “Why’d you dress up?”

“To meet French boys who lift,” Lydia teases. “Or girls. I’m not picky.” She picks up her pace then, and leaves Allison behind.

It’s probably better this way, honestly. She hates talking while running—it wears her out too fast. Even though she runs every day, she’s not fast, like Lydia. She’s breathing hard by the second time she comes around the bend and sees her grandma again, but she doesn’t give in. Even when Lydia finally laps her as she’s coming up to her grandmother for her third lap, she doesn’t stop. She can make it.

Lydia finishes her last lap just as Allison is starting hers. It strikes her as odd when she reaches her grandmother and Lydia isn’t there, but then Lydia tears by, now sprinting around the track.

Allison is breathing heavily, but she feels a pleasant burn in her legs. “Now what?” she asks, bending over to rest her arms on her knees.

“Run very fast, 600 meters,” Dominique says, without sympathy.

“How far is that?”

“One and a half. When you finish, you must have one minute for rest, then you run another 600. One more minute for rest, then the last 600.”

She hates sprinting, but she settles into a starting position. She tries to take a second to catch her breath, but her grandmother clears her throat. She takes off.

Her legs are long, which should make sprinting easier, but it’s not. Most of the training she did with her father helped her build up long endurance. This is nothing like that.

She passes Lydia taking her rest minute but keeps going. She still has a lap to go, and if she stops to check on Lydia, she’ll never finish.

The lap feels like torture, but she doesn’t let her pace slow. She’s going to make it. Argent women make it.

Finally she finishes the first interval and peters to a stop at the halfway point. She looks up at the big timer and leans against the wall, counting her minute down. Idly she watches Lydia sprinting around the track. She’s fast, which doesn’t really surprise her—Lydia is methodical in her training, and would never allow herself to be _bad_ at something she does in public.

Lydia passes her as her minute trickles out and she starts sprinting after her.

The intervals follow in similar ways after that, and by the end of it, Allison is gasping as she slowly jogs back to Dominique for a cool down. She feels completely exhausted in a way she never had been before, and the whole thing took less than twenty minutes.

She drops onto the bench by her grandmother where Lydia is waiting, already sipping water.

“Okay,” Dominique says. “That’s all for today.”

Allison has never been more grateful for a break. She groans and starts sipping her own water, eying Lydia with a grin. “Didn’t know Grandma would be so tough, did ya?”

Lydia rolls her eyes. “Of course I knew she was. She’s _your_ grandma. What else would she be like?”

* * *

 

Dominique gives them the rest of the day to themselves—mostly because she has a painting class, and then her job at the radio. (She goes to new places in Orleans, like spas or restaurants or little boutiques, and then talks about them on the radio.) “I will be on 99 _point_ 5, if you wish to hear it.”

They tune in at 11 am and listen to Dominique’s dulcet tones in French, the way her words flow together in a way they just don’t in English. They pick out words here and there, but most of it is above their level of comprehension.

“Did you ever meet her? When you were younger?” Lydia asks. The two of them are lying on Allison’s bed with the window open. Every once in a while a bee flies in, but they’ve learned to ignore the bees and instead embrace the wind. There’s no air conditioning here, so it’s an easy sacrifice.

“Not that I remember,” Allison says, frowning. “Dad never even talked about her. I thought she was dead.” She plays with the bit of Lydia’s hair that has fallen across her shoulder.

She hums. “That’s too bad. I loved spending time with my grandma growing up. She used to call me Ariel, you know?”

“Because you asked her to,” she teases, rolling onto her side and poking Lydia. “I know this story.”

The redhead laughs and smiles up at her. She grabs her hand before she can poke her again and intertwines their fingers. “I like that you remember.”

* * *

 

Dominique returns for lunch. She brings fresh bread with her, and makes simple sandwiches with _jambon_ and _fromage_. She sighs when Lydia refuses the addition of mayonnaise, but gives her the dry sandwich nonetheless. She mutters something about Americans under her breath.

“ _Mamie_ ,” Allison asks after swallowing a bite of her sandwich. “Can you tell me any stories about our ancestors?” She’s thinking about what Lydia said about her grandmother, and remembering how the two of them would read fairy tales and the like. She’d like that, too, if she could have it.

Her nose crinkles again, like she’s a little confused, but then her expression clears. “Ah, _oui_.  Yes. Okay. My favorite story is _Jeanne_ _le Grande_. She is my…I do not remember how you say it in English, but older than my grandmother! Very old.

“There was a…I think in English you call it a demon. Or a ghost, maybe. The demon was cruel and the town it sought was full of many young souls—it was after one of France’s many wars, you see, so many husbands were coming home and impregnating their wives. And children, though they are…” Dominique wrinkles her nose again, thinking. She finally says, “Strong, That is not the word I want. They can resist? You know.  But they cannot resist the power of a very old demon who wants to possess their tiny bodies and cause a lot of troubles. Not just little trouble, either—big trouble.

“But Jeanne noticed when the babies started to cry less and knock over vases more. She put up, ah, like mountain ash lines, you know? Not just those, but other protections. She even went to the forest to protect the wolves where they slumbered. They had an agreement not to kill or be killed. Very effective.”

Allison perks up at that. “We didn’t always kill werewolves?”

This makes her grandmother sigh. She stands and gets three wine glasses out of the cupboard and fills them with boxed rosé wine. She passes them to her guests and takes a long drink for herself. “More often than many would like, we hunted. The men, they like to say _nous chassons qui nous chasse_ , _mais_ —but no. For many years we hunted those who were different, who did not receive training! This is not right. Now, I teach wolves to control their instincts, to use them to protect. This is good.”

Lydia leans forward and rests her chin on her hands. “Did Jeanne do that, too?”

“Something like that,” Dominique confirms. “We were still wary, then.”

“How did she defeat the demon?” Allison asks.

“She did not,” she replies, and drinks more wine. “Demons are bad. Just bad. They cannot be stopped. All you can do is protect others from it, and your…ah, your goodness—the demons cannot exist next to it. So they leave, and bother someone else.”

“So Jeanne waited,” Lydia says. She’s staring at the table, frowning as she traces a line.

“Her patience was strength,” Allison says.

When Lydia meets her eyes, she feels her stomach drop and her breath catch in her throat. There’s something powerful in that moment that makes her want to reach out and hide Lydia way, to protect her as Jeanne protected her village.

“The story is better in French,” Dominique says, interrupting their strange connection. “I know more of the words and the magic.”

“It’s still good,” Allison says, and smiles.

* * *

 

Nights don’t get any easier, though Allison gets better at hiding the fact that she’s still awake. She reads online newspapers on her phone and, with headphones, starts learning French with the Duolingo app. She remembers more than she thought.

(She remembers how careful Stiles was with her the first day. How he was nervous for weeks that Allison would hate him. How he kept apologizing whenever he could get a word in.

How for the first few days, she couldn’t accept the apologies.)

Eventually she gets bored of practicing French. Unfortunately there’s not much else to do, so she ends up on a research spiral for boxing techniques.

(As soon as she passed a physical, she started training again. It was no longer enough to be _good_ at archery; she had to be fantastic at that and good at everything else. Which meant practicing every day, and not just with a bow and arrow. She started throwing knives, too, staying at the gym until it closed, then running around her neighborhood until her dad called her inside because it was too late.

She railed against him at first. “I have to better!”

“You have to take care of yourself!”)

She gets bored of learning about boxing, too.

(She didn’t know how to tell him that she _was_ taking care of herself, and everyone else, too.)

* * *

 

At the gym, Dominique alters their work out every other day. They do the sprints three days of the week, and on the others, they do interval training. Allison only knows it’s called this because of her research. Dominique doesn’t know how to explain it in English, but that’s not a real trouble. Her instructions are always clear, and she’s still strong enough to demonstrate what she means.

First, she has them jog around the track eight times—two miles. This isn’t as difficult as the sprinting—Allison can do endurance running. Then it’s a quick sprint for 100 meters, which is less fun.

Lydia continues to excel at running and mostly, Allison tries not to be jealous. And not to pin Lydia to the wall and kiss her.

(Some days are easier than others.)

After the running, they shadowbox for three minutes. It’s hard on both Lydia and Allison, though Allison finds she’s able to fall into the rhythm easier. And she is better at endurance than Lydia is, so she’s still ready to go for the next task, while Lydia always wants to stop for a break.

“You have to go,” Dominique says, relentless, and then the two of them run backwards for 200 meters.

Lydia is always gasping and laughing at the end of that, and usually wraps an arm around Allison’s waist to hold herself up. “Honestly, this isn’t what I expected,” she tells Allison. She darts to the side of the track to steal a gulp of water from the fountain.

When she returns, Allison nudges her with her elbow. “What did you expect? Argent women don’t screw around.”

“I know,” she sighs, and then gives her a flirty look. “It’s really too bad.”

She’s glad her face is already red from exertion. She nudges Lydia again. “Shut up.” She doesn’t want her to shut up. She wants her to pin her to the nearest stair machine and eat her out. And then she wants to return the favor.

Worried that she’ll actually _voice_ those desires, she takes off for the sprint back to Dominique. They have shadowboxing to do.

* * *

 

Dominique feeds them very well—full lunches and dinners every day with lots of wine to quench their thirst.

It’s not like it’s Allison’s first time drinking, but it’s the first time an adult has plied her with so much alcohol. For free anyway. Anyway, the boxed wine in France is a lot better than the stuff frat boys pass out in her dorm.

Lydia gets more touchy after drinking a few glasses, she soon discovers. Suddenly Lydia is resting hands on her thigh when she laughs, playing with Allison’s hair whenever she gets distracted by how shiny it is, and always holding her hand on the way to their bedrooms after a big meal.

One night, the three of them eat in the living room so they can rest on the more cozy chairs. Lydia ends up pressed against Allison’s side, one arm thrown around her and her head resting on her shoulder. “Tell us another story?” she asks hopefully, pouting at Dominique.

Dominique laughs at Lydia’s pout, but nods. “This one, I think, is good for you, Allison. It is about _la bête grise_ , and the Lady Argent d’Amboise. We do not know her name so she is called _la dame_. She was born in a time of great peace, after _Jeanne_ _la grande_. This was a good thing, because she learned how to bargain with the wolves instead of killing them. For many years, the town of Amboise was very safe, and she merely trained for protection against robbers and the like. But soon, in her walks to the woods, she began to discover dead rabbits, and then dead deer, and finally, a dead werewolf. This, therefore, became a problem for the whole town and also for the wolves.

“So _la dame_ went to speak with the tribe to see if it was a newly bitten wolf causing the problem. They told her no, and then said she killied the wolf. This was not true, naturally, but it ended the truce between the Argents and the wolves for many years.”

“Did the truce ever get repaired?” Allison asks, curious. She feels a little sleepy, listening to her grandmother’s lilting accent and feeling Lydia pressed so warm against her. She shivers a little when Lydia’s hand makes contact with her bare neck. She wants to roll over and let Lydia press her into the couch. She wants to be bitten and marked until everyone knows she’s with Lydia and they shouldn’t even try.

She leans into the hand that’s rubbing small circles into her neck.

“Only after your aunt Kate was born,” Dominique admits. “This is what drove Gerard away. I wanted to make the truce. He wanted to keep killing. He took my children to America and I was left with a precarious peace that needed to be maintained.”

“Do you regret that?” she wonders.

Her grandmother blinks several times and then looks away. “ _La dame_ began searching the woods in earnest after that. She knew it was imperative to discover who was doing the killing. Unfortunately, with the pack against her, it became difficult to navigate. It was at this time that it was discovered she could ward them off by wearing sachets of wolfsbane and mountain ash on her necklace. Naturally she had to be very careful she did not wear the wolfsbane for too long, as it is very dangerous for humans. In fact we believe that sustained contact with wolfsbane is eventually what lead to her death.”

“That’s horrible,” Lydia says, eyes cast downward.

Allison knows that Lydia is remembering that awful 16th birthday party, so she easily reaches over to take her hand and squeezes it.

“Yes,” Dominique agrees. “Still, she lived long enough to complete the task. It took time, but eventually she found a wolf—the grey beast—attacking a young girl out in the woods gathering berries. She killed it with her sword and buried it under wolfsbane. This was the tradition among wolves, and she was honorable enough to bury a beast this way, too.”

“So her strength was standing against opposition,” Allison says thoughtfully.

“And knowing her enemy,” Lydia adds.

* * *

 

Lydia is the only one she wanted to see after she woke up in the hospital bed. Everything had happened because Lydia needed to be saved, and Allison would be damned if she didn’t make sure Scott and Kira had done their job.

When she finally did visit—after everyone else, even Stiles—her eyes were rimmed red like she’d been crying. “I heard you die, Allison,” she whispered, her fingers tangling up in the bedsheet. “I thought—“

“I’m safe,” Allison had whispered, and grasped Lydia’s hand tightly. “I’m here.”

* * *

 

She doesn’t have panic attacks so much as anxiety attacks that last for days. Sometimes they just keep getting worse and worse until she finally has to cut class and go to the gym and lift weights until her arms are protesting and she can no longer feel her legs.

It’s not an option here.

She feels it building after Dominique leaves them for her cooking class one morning. She feels restless and unsettled in her own skin. She doesn’t realize she’s fidgeting until Lydia touches her arm and she nearly jumps out of her skin. “What?” she whispers, voice strangely harsh.

“Maybe you should take a nap?” Lydia says slowly, frowning at her. “You seem…wired and exhausted.”

She shakes her head. “I can’t. Bad at napping.”

She gets a strange look on her face, purses her lips and bats her eyelashes in a steady, staccato rhythm. “I’ll sit outside your door, if you like.”

Something in her snaps in two, and she pushes herself roughly off the couch. She paces because she wants to speak but doesn’t know what to say.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Lydia says quietly, like she can read her thoughts. “But I want you to know that if you ever want to, I’m listening. And in the meantime, know that I always have your best interests at heart. I only want to make your life as…easy, as pain-free as possible. It’s why I contacted your grandma; it’s why I came over as soon as you were back from college because I know you don’t sleep and I needed to make sure you did. I don’t want to be your mom, okay, or your aunt, or any other female figure in your life that you relied on to force you into a healthy schedule. I just want to be your…your friend, or—whatever you want me to be.”

She feels like she’s shaking out of her skin, so she does the only thing that seems to make sense in that moment. She drops into Lydia’s lap, straddles her, and then kisses her, hard. “Is this okay?” she asks, pulling back.

In response, Lydia pulls her close again, whispers against her mouth, “Definitely.”

* * *

 

Allison still can’t sleep that night. She’s trying to figure out what she’ll do when Dominique isn’t holding her to her rigid schedule of being in bed—lying down at least—at 10pm and waking her up at 6am to go to the gym and train. It’s possible she’d be able to do the same without her, but she’s sad to be leaving her grandmother, too. It’s nice to know she got her penchant for peace from at least one other person in her family.

She’s still trying to figure out what she should do when there’s a quiet tap at the door. She gets up and opens the door to see Lydia. She’s only a little surprised to see her. “Can’t sleep?” she says, smiling a little.

Lydia steps close to her and hugs her around her waist. She shakes her head. “I keep thinking about you and how it doesn’t make sense for us to sleep in separate beds.”

That makes her grin. She shuts the door behind Lydia and nods toward the bed. It’s only a twin, but Allison is used to bringing people back to her twin bed in her dorm. It shouldn’t be too difficult to fit the two of them there.

It _is_ easy to curl up under the covers, Lydia tucked between Allison and the wall, small and soft.

“I was also thinking you might just be…wired. Maybe that’s why you can’t sleep,” she suggests, wiggling her eyebrows.

“If you’re suggesting sex, it’s never worked before,” Allison says, but she realizes she’s grinning. “But I mean, we could make out for a little bit.”

“Nice,” Lydia whispers, and leans forward to press a soft kiss to Allison’s lower lip. She sucks it into her mouth gently and scoots closer to her on the bed until their legs are tangled.

Kissing Lydia feels like coming home, in some ways. She feels like with every slide of lips and every tiny bite, Lydia is pulling anxiety out of her body. And it doesn’t matter that when she wakes up in the morning, she’ll be anxious again, because at least she has right now. She has this.

She licks her bottom lip and presses inside Lydia’s mouth after a few moments, and learns the contours there, the feel of her lips over her gums and the way she sighs when she runs her tongue over hers. She pulls back gently and murmurs, “You’re so beautiful.”

“You should look in the mirror sometime,” Lydia whispers back, and curls her hands around her hips to hoist her closer.

Lydia seems to prefer her bottom lip, which is fine with her because she quickly figures out how to make Lydia gasp by moving her tongue a certain way under her lip.

It’s so easy to be with her like this and in some ways, it feels like it was the natural progression of their friendship—their relationship. She was always meant to discover the weight of Lydia’s breast in her palm and the way she moans softly when her nipples are tugged in just the right way. She could spend her whole life getting to know Lydia’s body, and it would always feel this good. She knows that for certain, just as certain as she knows that she loves Lydia, and that Lydia loves her.

They’ve always said so, haven’t they?

* * *

 

As Lydia falls asleep tucked against her, she contemplates what she’ll do after she returns home.

Maybe she can just follow after her ancestors, and persevere by knowing her enemies (monsters, bullies, spontaneity) and by having the patience to conquer them all.

* * *

 

Dominique takes them back to the airport and gives them strict instructions about how to continue their workout. “Come back next summer, if you can,” she suggests, and actually hugs Allison goodbye. “You know,” she says meaningfully, “It’s traditional for those who marry Argent women to take their name. But I think maybe Lydia won’t want to do that.”

Allison blushed. “ _Mamie_ ,” she hisses, pretending to be scandalized. The effect is ruined by her own laughter, of course, and Lydia’s cheerful nod.

“Remember your roots are more honorable than your grandfather would have you believe, and braver than your father behaves,” Dominique says, much more seriously. “But importantly, remember that I love you.”

She can’t help but hug her again. “I love you, too, _Mamie_.”

Allison isn’t sure what to expect as she leaves her grandmother behind. Being in France has felt a bit like an impossible dream where she suddenly had a reasonable relative who loved her unconditionally and who actually believed in respecting people.

Her grandmother isn’t perfect, but it feels like she’s close.

So she’s apprehensive about leaving Dominique, but—Argent women are leaders. She’ll be able to make more changes, when she gets home.

She might have been more nervous if Lydia wasn’t holding her hand so tightly as they walked onto the airplane.

If she was with her, perhaps it was close enough to home to be survivable.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by the fantastic Villainette, which accompanies the story!

 

 


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